


Pictures of the Past

by ZoeyRowan



Series: Shadeslayer [2]
Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Alternate Universe!!!!, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-12
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-01-24 11:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1602911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoeyRowan/pseuds/ZoeyRowan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A picture says a thousand words and a book of them tells a history so powerful and magical it is impossible to believe. When a descendant of Eragon Shadeslayer finds a photo album put together by him, the tales are once again told. A/U Shadeslayer tale. Originally posted on FF.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Prologue

“Granamma?”

The old elf smiled at her great-great-great-granddaughter and held out her hand to take the large, leather bound book. The breath hitched in her throat as she shakily traced the dragon stamped into the dark leather.

“Dear heart, where did you get this?” she whispered, her voice oh so soft. The child, her dark brown eyes serious, pointed in the direction of the forest Du Weldenvarden.

“I found it in a cave in the forest,” the young girl said, confused by her elder’s reaction. The old elf closed her green eyes, eyes that saw the world as if it was covered in a fog. But that did not mean her memories were dim, no, they were as bright as day. She remembered watching her father put this book together; remembered him telling her the story behind each. She had been fascinated by the stories, she had been over fifty, but she had drunk in every word as if she was a child and still remembered them, well over eight centuries later.

“What is it, Gran?” the girl asked.

The old elf looked at the young one and for the first time in ten years, she was able to see clearly. She saw the young one, saw her unruly dark brown hair, her serious brown eyes, and the human cast to her features. The human blood had thrown true in this one, she thought, brushing the child’s hair out of her face. This one will do great things, like her ancestor. 

Oh father, if only you could see this child, she thought.

“This is a very special book,” she said, brushing her fingers over the cover. “My father made it, before he left Alagaësia.”

The girl’s eyes widened and sparkled with excitement. “You mean…Rider Eragon?”

Aiedail laughed. “Yes dear, Rider Eragon. He made this book, this picture book, and told me all about it. Its so we don’t…we don’t forget.”

The girl, Isla, frowned at her elder, but settled down at her feet, sensing a story. Aiedail looked to the west, where she could just barely make out the shape of a white mountain in the distance. At a thought from her, the mountain moved and the head of a truly enormous dragon appeared, eyes as big as houses full of curiosity.

“Don’t forget what, Gran?” Isla asked, eager to hear a tale from her oldest relation. Aiedail smiled at the child, the last of her line. This child was descended from her son Brom’s daughter, from the line of Zaahira, the great-grandchild of Dauthleikr Rauthr, that abomination child that turned out to be the key to winning the war. She had strong blood in her veins; she would need it to face the trials that awaited her.

“Gran?” Isla tugged Aiedail’s skirts, impatient with her stalling. Dail took a deep breath and rested her frail hand on the child’s head.

“The past, child. We must never forget…the past.”


	2. Snap-shot One: Brom, 23 and Saphira, 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Inheritance series. Just the charries that come from my mind.

_Snap-Shot One: Brom, 23, and Saphira, 13_

Labeled: Brom and Saphira, just before Saphira was killed

 

_A young man, his brown hair wind tousled, bright blue eyes dancing with laughter, leaned against a magnificent, sapphire blue dragon. They are a little ways away from a group of young Riders and their dragons, all dressed for patrol. The dragon’s head is turned to look at her Rider and it is plain to all the bond they share._

Brom didn't remember how he got to the room.

Slowly, wincing from the pounding in his temples, he sat up and looked around. Clothes, his and a woman's, littered the floor, the single chair in the room was on its side and the pitcher on the wash-stand was dangerously close to falling off the stand. Next to him, a striking woman with long, nutmeg brown hair slept soundly. Brom frowned, rubbing his temples as he struggled to remember what had happened the night before. Had he paid for her, or met her at a tavern? Where exactly was he? What was her name? And most importantly, what time was it? Was he going to be late for patrol? He couldn’t remember _anything_.

Tossing the covers back, he slowly swung his legs over the bed and rose, stumbling to the washstand and splashing water on his face. It did little to revive him, so he carefully pulled his clothes back on and crept from the room. Downstairs in the inn’s dining area; he chose a secluded booth and ordered his standard sobering drink. After knocking back a few glasses of the revolting tonic, his head was clear enough for him to send a mental call.

_Saphira?_

He got a sleepy grumble for a reply and smiled. She had been affected by his night of drinking as much as he had. When she woke up, she would be as mad as a fanghur at him. It was almost worth the tongue lashing to see his normally calm, sarcastically pessimistic partner as mellow as an elf when he drank. He and Morzan had…

No. He would not think about the traitor today. The damn oath breaker occupied far too much of his thoughts already.

Determined to have a good day, Brom paid for his drinks and the room, tightened his sword-belt, brushing his fingers reverently over the new, sapphire blue sword, _Adurna_ , and left.

_Saphira, wake up. We are back on shift at noon._

_Why didn’t you think of that last night?_ she grumbled, allowing him to feel the stabbing pains she felt in her head. _I’ve told you again and again, I want you to find a vice that won’t force me to deal with the side-effects!_ From the groans she punctuated her complaints with, he figured she was moving around, finding the water-trough. As he walked through the streets of Illyria, continuing his mental conversation, he nodded to the people who greeted him with a slight bow and murmured “Argetlam”. He waved to the few Riders he saw, easily identified by their rich cloaks of satin or silk, dyed to match their dragon’s scales. He wore his, but it was wrinkled and dirty.

_Quit your whining and get something to eat,_ he advised as he strode through the gates of the Riders’ Citadel. _I’ll be up there as soon as I get clean and eat something._

_Just you wait,_ she warned as she withdrew from the mental link, _I’m going to give you a piece of my mind when I see you._

_Funny, I thought that happened years ago,_ he mused, climbing the eastern stairs to the Riders’ Quarters. He took a short cut to his rooms, passing the door to the right of his without looking in, as he had forced himself to do for the past three weeks, shoving any thought of the former occupant out of his mind. Quickly showering and changing, grabbing a premade packet of traveling food, dried fruits, meat and flat bread, to munch on as he hurried to the Dragonhold, he managed to get there, withstand Saphira’s tongue lashing, and have them saddled and ready to patrol by noon. As they leapt into the sky to join their patrol, he sighed. Just a normal day in Illyria, life went on has it had before Galbatorix became a threat. Or so he thought.

 


	3. Snap-shot Two: Arya, 102

_Snap-Shot Two: Arya, 102_

Labeled: Arya, after Oromis died

_A slim elfish woman stood in front of a window, her long black hair held back by a leather band. She gazes sadly out into the rain, pain and longing are written clearly on her face. Pasted next to that is another, of the same woman, but she is smiling, her emerald eyes alive and bright. She is curled up next to a striking man with brown hair and deep brown eyes, who is gazing at her with adoration in his eyes. Behind them, a beautiful dragon stares out into the rain, hiding them from the world._

 

Arya had never really liked the rain. It had always been raining when bad news, news that would shatter her world, arrived. A Dragon rider named Galbatorix had seized control of Doru Araeba and killed all the Riders. Her father, King Evandar, had died in battle. Kalimara, her closest friend and fellow Varden member, an elf she had known all her life, who had been her mentor and hero, was killed by Urgals. The thief the Varden had sent into Galbatorix stronghold had gotten out with only one egg and disappeared.

As she stared out the window of the room she had appropriated, watching the rain hit the glass over and over, hard enough that she marveled it didn’t break, she wondered if more bad news was on the way. She entertained the thought for a while, morbidly coming up with ways that it could arrive. Her mother had been killed. The third egg had hatched for Galbatorix. Eragon and/or Saphira hand been captured and/or killed. One of the other main leaders of the Varden had been killed.

_Stop it,_ she scolded herself, tearing herself away from such thoughts. _What is wrong with you? A little rain and you are contemplating the end of the world. Get a hold of yourself._

But she knew what was wrong. The same thing that was wrong every time a certain someone left the Varden’s base. She was worried and lonely.

Arya was not stupid by any means, and she refused to lie to herself or not acknowledge her weaknesses. She knew what her feelings were towards the Varden’s Rider and she knew they were inappropriate. She was the princess of the elves, the only direct heir to the Knotted Throne. She would someday, if they lived through this war, become Queen. Eragon was the first Rider of the new generation, his dragon the last female left alive. If they succeeded in overthrowing Galbatorix, Eragon would become the First Rider, the Master Rider. Equal to, and indeed above the station she would one day hold.

And the most gauling part of the whole mess was, when she had told him she didn’t feel anything for him, it had been true. During those days of travel across the Empire with him, something had changed, she finally saw him for the man he had become, not the boy he had been.

The logical part of her told her she had been right to shut him down as she had, to insist they remain friends. But another part, one long denied and suppressed, weary of hiding, urged her to seize her chance, find Eragon and confess her feelings for him and beg him to take her. Yes, he had been a farmboy; yes, he had been human; yes, he was impulsive, rash and headstrong. But… _so what?_ His impulsiveness had had him hiding Saphira, his rashness to free her from Durza and, since she was alone in her head, she could admit, she admired his tendency to sink his teeth into an idea and not let go.

Rubbing her eyes, she scanned the scarred table that served as a desk, looked at the documents, ledgers and scraps of papers scattered across its surface. Suddenly, she was very tired, tired and sick of the war and the fighting and the death. Pushing herself away from the table, Arya strode out of the room, buckling her sword on as she slipped through the halls.

The Varden had taken over the home of Governor Lorana. Arya had taken a room in the south wing on the second story. There had been constant activity, meetings, war councils and plans being made in the past few weeks. Arya was glad Nasuada declared the day a rest day.

Slipping out of the mansion, she quickly made her way through the rain to the stable that had been converted into a dragonhold for Saphira. Arya had made a point of coming to see the dragon every day she was available. What had started off as a cautious, respectful visit soon became a time to relax and get to know the beautiful dragon.

She was so preoccupied with her thoughts, she didn’t realize she wasn’t the only visitor until it was too late.

“Arya?”

Eragon’s startled tone shocked her out of her stupor.

“Ah…hello Eragon,” she said politely in the Ancient Language, touching her fingers to her lips. “I, uh, I came to see Saphira…” she trailed off as she realized the dragon was no where to be seen.

“She went hunting,” Eragon explained, seeing the flash of confusion on her face. “She should be back soon.”

“Oh.” Casting around for something to say, her eyes kept wandering to look at him. He was stretched out on a pile of blankets, boots and socks kicked off, tunic half-undone, letting her glimpse his muscled chest. His hair was tousled, like he had just woken up and it inspired a fantasy that Arya had to fight very hard to get rid of. There was a stack of papers and a pencil in front of him, one side of the papers covered in Eragon’s neat, precise letters. She latched onto them, hoping it would distract her.

“New plans?” she asked, nodding at the stack. To her surprise, he blushed and gathered the papers up, getting to his knees and starting to stuff them into a ledger.

“No. Something…else.”

“May I?”

After a moment’s hesitation, he slowly held out the pages. She took them and sat a few feet from him.

The first two pages held a poem, hastily penned, most of it crossed out and written over. The next few pages were more of the same, less crossing out as it went on, the words becoming more rhythmic. The last pages were the final poem. She read them aloud softly, entranced by the words written in the Ancient Language.

It spoke of a raven haired lady with eyes of emerald green, lauded her virtues and courage, of the way she slew a Shade and helped kill another. In the background, a man hovered, a Dragon Rider with a great destiny, who wanted nothing more than peace and to be able to love the lady openly.

Arya read the last line and stopped. It wasn’t finished, it left the reader hanging. She looked up and met the author’s eyes.

“Eragon…”

“No, Arya, I’m sorry. You weren’t supposed to…I wrote that trying to wind down, its not…” he reached over to take the papers. “I am sorry if I have offended you again, Arya Svit-kona.”

“Hush,” she said, keeping a firm hold on the stack. “It’s beautiful, Eragon, absolutely beautiful. But,” she had to pause to gather her courage, “I do want to know how it ends.”

“I…”

_Oh, just kiss her already!_

They both jumped and turned to the door to see Saphira filling the space, an amused glint in her eyes, small pools forming around her ankles as the rain was diverted from its downward path by her girth. Arya blushed and turned to look at Eragon, who was glaring at the dragon.

“Eragon…”

“Arya, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to show you the poem and Saphira was completely out of line.” The dragon snorted but held her peace, as far as Arya could tell. “I know you said you didn’t feel anything for me, and I have been trying to do the same, but…”

“Eragon,” she said sharply, cutting through his rant. Sliding over to sit directly in front of him, she took his face in her hands and before she lost her nerve, kissed him.

It took him a moment to process what she had done, but when he did, his arms slipped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. What had begun as an innocent meeting of lips changed when he started fighting her for control of the kiss, nibbling at her lips, teasing her, nudging them open with his tongue to taste her.

When they were forced to come up for air, they were both panting hard, but neither moved away. Arya couldn’t make herself back away, she was enthralled by him. Despite how much time she had spent with him over the past two years, she had never had an opportunity to just…look at him, take in his features, and memorize them this closely. Her fingers traced his face, lightly brushing his cheekbones, nose and eye brows, flitting across his lips while she smiled at him. She could see the war he was waging with himself, struggling to keep himself under control. Tossing her normal standards and inhabitations out the window, Arya leaned close and kissed him again, this time _she_ was the one attacking, sucking on his lip and invading his mouth.

“Forget what you’ve been taught, Rider,” she whispered as she forced him backwards, slipping her hands under his tunic and nipping his ear. “Take me, I’m here. I’m yours.”

And he did.

Later, after, Arya lay next to Eragon as he finished the poem. She had never felt so… _free_. Her entire life, she had been living up to someone’s idea of the perfect Arya, striving to be the perfect daughter, the perfect ambassador, the perfect elf, so much so that…she might have forgotten who she really was. Eragon, she realized, was different. As she watched him, the light from the torch Saphira had lit casting an odd, golden light onto his skin, she realized what it was that had always baffled her about Eragon. He was the one person who had no preset notions of her, to him, she was perfect the way she was.

She must have made some noise when she realized it, because he looked down at her, puzzlement clear on his face. She smiled and moved closer to him, taking the pencil and papers and setting him aside, drawing him down next to her.

Perhaps, she thought with a soft sigh, the rain wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

____________________

For all those that are wondering, yes, this is one of my ideas for how Arya and Eragon got together. I’m sure this is a much more sappy, emotionally over-killing version than what I originally thought when I started writing Aiedail Shadeslayer. IDK, something like that. So yeah. Toodles!


	4. Snap-shot Three: Morzan, 100

Labeled: Morzan and Murtagh

_A little boy is crumpled on the floor, bleeding profusely from a deep wound on his back. Walking away, cloak flapping after him, a dark haired man leaves, never noticing the pain he has just caused._

“Where the hell is she?” Morzan, first and last of the Forsworn, shouted as he hurled a pitcher of wine at the wall. None of the assembled servants dared answer, afraid of calling attention to themselves. “You!” he growled, pointing to a trembling maid. “Are you going to tell me where that whoring bitch is?” The girl started shaking so badly she practically vibrated.

“I…I…I don’t…I don’t know, lord,” she stammered. “Please lord, I…”

“Silence!” Morzan thundered. “You lie! You all lie! One of you will tell me where she is, or by the gods I’ll kill you all!”

“I don’t know,” the maid sobbed, falling to her knees, still shaking with terror. “My lord, please, I don’t kno…”

“Garjzla!” Morzan hissed. A bolt of red light hit her and she pitched forward, dead. He surveyed the gathered servants, his gaze lingering on any who fidgeted or even breathed deeply. “I’ll do the same, or worse, to all of you, one at a time, until she is found. Get out of my sight!”

There was a stampede as the servants all headed to the door. No one noticed the small, dark-haired boy who slipped inside and watched with dark, intense eyes as Morzan paced and cursed, muttering dire promises of retribution to his missing wife.

“Papa?”

The singe word, spoken with the quiet curiosity of a child, set Morzan off again. He whirled and drew his lips back in a snarl when he saw the boy.

“Murtagh! Get out!” he boomed, picking up the thing nearest to hand. His blade, Zar’roc, laying unsheathed on the table. “Get out!”

Murtagh, scared by his father’s sudden anger, turned to flee, but he wasn’t fast enough for the enraged Morzan. Quick as a cobra, he cocked his arm back and hurled the sword at the fleeing boy.

The sword sliced through cloth and flesh as if they were butter, ripping the child’s back from hip to shoulder. Murtagh screamed as he fell, a scream of disbelief and betrayal.

Morzan however, paid no attention to the bleeding, screaming child except to rub his temples as they started to pound from the noise. Calmly stepping over the torn body of his son, he picked up Zar’roc, cleaned the blade on his tunic and strode away, leaving his offspring to bleed out.

“You!” he called to the first servant he saw. The woman, an older matron who had served Morzan faithfully for years, trembled when her master approached. But instead of harming her, he cocked a finger over his shoulder, in the direction of the screams. “Take care of that pitiful brat. Shut him up somehow. His screaming is giving me a headache.”


	5. Snap-shot Four: Brom: Take Two, Part One, Age 100

Labeled: Brom and Eragon, a few months after Eragon was born

 

_A babe slumbered in the arms of a man whose face was lined with years of worry and hardship, his once shining nut brown hair long silvered and dull. The man’s eyes held a spark, almost of hope. The portrait captured the exact moment the child reached up and grabbed hold of the man’s finger, which had been tracing his face. The wonder and hope is clear on the man’s face. Another time, this picture would have been titled,_ The Father and His Firstborn _. But for this family, there would never be such title, no family ties ever voiced while both were alive. Perhaps,_ Once _would be a better title for this picture._

 

When I arrived in Carvahall, I was desperate to find Selena’s family, to locate my child. I didn’t know if it a male or female, what it even looked like, its name, _anything_. But I did have one name, Garrow Cadocsson, Selena’s brother. It would do for a start.

I was recognized by a few people in the little village, greeted by the young blacksmith, Horst. He had built a fine house since I last visited. I stopped by his smithy. People talked when getting something fixed at the blacksmith.

“Brom, wasn’t expecting to see you again!” the big man said heartily. “How have you been?”

“Fine, just fine, Horst. And yourself?”

“Good, good. Elaine had our first child last year, a strapping boy,” the man boasted, puffing out his chest. I smiled, nodded and gave all the expected congratulations. Well, that was one child crossed off the list.

“By the way,” I said casually, “Where does, uh, Garrow Cadocsson live? Got a message from some noblewoman for him.”

Horst snorted. “T’aint no noble lady, man! It’s likely his sister, Selena. Showed up about eight, nine months ago, pregnant and no man in sight. Stayed til the babe was born, then up and disappeared.”

“And her babe?” I asked, proud that I managed to keep most of the urgency out of my voice.

“Well, that’s the funny thing. She left the babe with her brother. Elaine heard from Marian, Garrow’s wife, that Selena begged them to keep him. Claimed the child would be in danger if anyone knew about him. Gave him a funny name, too. Eragon. Sounds elfish, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, a bit,” I agreed absently. I had more information in five minutes with Horst than I’d been able to gather on my own in months! “Well, I better be going. Goodbye, Horst.”

“Bye Brom. Oh, Garrow’s place! Right, its just outside town, past Gertrude’s place. Can’t miss it, Marian’s got all kinds of flowers growing by the road.”

“Thanks.” And with that, I left.

Garrow’s farm wasn’t hard to find. As I trudged up the path to the house, I mulled over what I would say. Hi, I’m the father of your nephew, but no, not your sister’s husband. And no, I’m not taking him with me, people will try to kill him. Yeah, that would be perfect.

I paused before knocking. Gods, this was harder than I thought it would be. I reminded myself I had killed Morzan, this should be easy. I knocked.

The door was opened by a small, pretty brunette. She had a tow-headed toddler on her hip and smiled when she saw me.

“Yes?”

“Is this the home of Garrow Cadocsson?” I asked, bowing a little. She flushed and nodded.

“Yes. I’m his wife, Marian. Garrow’s out of town, he went to Therinsford. How can I help you?”

“I have a message for him, from a lady in Urû’baen. I suppose I can give it to you.” I gave her what Selena had called my snake-charmer’s smile. “May I come in?”

“Oh, of course. Come in, come in.” She ushered me in, showed me through the neat, tidy house to the kitchen. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Brom.”

“Can I get you anything, Master Brom? Something to drink?”

“No, thank you. You have a lovely home. I…”

My words were stopped as a wail sounded from a basket by the stove. Not a basket, I realized as Marian went to it and picked up a screaming baby. A crib.

“Hush Eragon, hush,” she crooned, rocking the baby gently. My heart stopped. Eragon. _My son._

“This is my nephew,” Marian said as the cries subsided. “He’s usually a quiet baby, I don’t know what happened.”

“It’s fine.” I had to lock my joints to keep from leaping forward and snatching him away from her. “I have several nieces and nephews myself, I’m used to their cries.”

Marian smiled. “You seem very familiar, Master Brom. Have we met?”

“Perhaps. I’ve come around to Carvahall on business occasionally over the years.”

“I see. Well…” There was a crash in the next room and a child’s wails. Marian sighed.

“Roran. If you don’t mind…” Before I knew what had happened, Marian stuffed the babe in my arms and disappeared into the next room.

I gazed down, amazed, getting my first good look at my son. A thatch of blonde hair covered the top of his head, though I guessed it would turn brown eventually. He had been asleep, but a few seconds later, he opened his eyes and stared at me with solemn, brown eyes. I could have wept. He had Selena’s eyes. I closed my eyes and rested my hand on his forehead, calling on what power I had left to me.

_“Atra gulia un celöbra tauthr ono un atra ono sköliro fra rauthr. Se mor’ranr ono finna, Eragon-elda.”*_

It was probably the only blessing I would ever be able to give him. Hopefully, it would be enough. I prayed it would be enough.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *May luck and happiness and honor follow you and may you be shielded form misfortune. May you find peace, Eragon-elda.
> 
> Yes, I am aware of the cheese of Brom saying that to Eragon. But come on. You have to admit, the kid is pretty damned lucky.


End file.
